


Fever

by MostFacinorous



Series: Warmth [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sad, Sickfic, angsty, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will came, though whether it was because of the sound of him falling, or because his absence had been noted, he couldn’t tell. He’d seemed only to blink, but perhaps he’d slept. He seemed so far off from everything around him, and his head felt heavy and warm and he felt as though his heart was thumping in his ears.</p><p>“Will… I think I may have fallen a bit ill.” Even his voice was disjointed and distant...</p><p>Hannibal gets sick, Will learns some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

The day had come.

 

The same delicious fear that had kept Will alive this long, the same one that intrigued him so, had come suddenly and strongly at him in his office.

He loved the fear, the pain, the confusion—loved being the cause of it. He’d never had a patient so willing to inflict it upon themselves before, but Will Graham was anything but his usual patient.

And he had been playing him for months, pulling his emotions until he was taut as a bowstring, ready to crack or fire.

He trusted him, and his sudden fear, his sudden flight, could bring only one conclusion: He’d finally realized who—what—Hannibal was.

Hannibal couldn’t even say that he’d let him get away—Will had simply stopped mid sentence, prattling on about how people trusted people, how they got close to one another, speaking so disdainfully about it that Hannibal couldn’t help but to grin—and then his jaw had dropped, he’d stammered out something that wasn’t even real words, and he’d left.

Hannibal hadn’t gathered himself to chase him in time, and by the time he’s realized what had happened, Will was already behind the wheel of his car, peeling out of the parking lot in front of his office.

 

But it was nearly an hour and a half later when he got the call from Jack Crawford. Which was, needless to say, something of a surprise. He’d been expecting to have his door kicked in and words screamed at him while guns were blazing.

“Doctor Lecter, have you seen Will? He isn’t answering his phone, and Alana says he never came back to his house today. She was waiting for him.”

Hannibal’s heart began to pound in his ears. Had something happened? Had Will decided that the shame was too great, that spending so long trusting him, while the ripper was hiding just below his nose all the time, was too much to swallow? Had he harmed himself?

“I saw him for his normal appointment over an hour ago. He left, suddenly—I assumed to go see you, likely for a case. You know how he is when he discovers things. But, you say you have not heard from him?”

If he hadn’t told Jack by now, there was, perhaps, a good chance that he would not. And, if he hadn’t communicated because he was wounded, out there somewhere alone—perhaps pinned in the twisted wreckage of his car, driven erratically because of the unadulterated self loathing he must be experiencing, wasn’t it fitting that Hannibal should be the one to find him? To ascertain whether he intended to speak, and, if so, to silence him?

The opportunity was far too good to pass up.

“I will begin looking on the roads between my office and his home. Perhaps he chose to pull off and sleep. You and I both know he doesn’t do enough of that.”

He began pulling on his coat even before he had hung up with Jack, and was out the door and in his car in record time.

 

-*-

 

It hadn’t hit him until just then, sitting in Hannibal’s office.

He was so stupid; how had he been so blind?

He’d been talking about trust, and how the killer seemed to worm under peoples’ defenses just by seeming to agree with them, by listening to them, and sounding like he was on their side.

Will had never had anyone on his side. Not really. Not until recently. But until Hannibal Lecter, he had never had someone so squarely in his corner before.

Hannibal gave advice—not to keep working for the greater good, which he always pushed himself for, not to appease Jack, the man paying Hannibal’s checks, but for what was good for Will.

Hannibal took care of him.

He took care of him above and beyond his duty as a therapist, this was… this was something else. Something real. A friendship.

Will hadn’t had many of those. Friendships were difficult things, because being friends with someone involves empathizing with them, on some level. But he doesn’t have anything of his own for them to empathize with. So instead he became a mirror for the people closest to him—and though everyone is happy to think they are a good friend, but when they have to face themselves, they usually do not like what they see.

Friendships, to Will, have always seemed like just a shade of the same hue of emotion that desperation fell under. It was almost a fear response- friends were the result of the fear of being alone.

Until Hannibal. He’d realized that he was relaxed, in that room. No tension, no shaking, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was content. He might even go so far as to say he was happy—and he could attribute that to Hannibal. That was the only real variable that seemed to matter.

And he’d realized that while sitting opposite the man in question. And he’d had a very different fear response. There was no fight involved—he’d fled.

And that was how he’d found himself wandering around the truck stop area that he sometimes took some of the dogs to, in the summer.

Hardly anyone else came here, and certainly no one bothered them, but the dogs loved to splash around in the river, and he liked having the opportunity to get out and stretch his legs a little bit.

He parked in the lot and slammed his door shut, opening and closing it again just to be sure it latched. He’d been driving a shitty little Nissan for years, and the damn thing was old, and rusty, and he was relatively sure he had walked into it one too many times in his sleep, or something.

Even with the snow on the ground, he knew this area well enough to know the small trail without the markers. He’d just walk the circuit, clear his head, then go home, feed the dogs… call Hannibal and apologize for running out.  Maybe thank him, somehow. He’d never really had much call to be grateful for having people in his life before, either. He would definitely have to practice.

 

-*-

 

He nearly drove past Will’s car at first—it was pulled off the road and all but hidden from view by the trees. Only the fact that he had been searching for it made him aware of its existence at all.  Just off of Stansfield road, outside of Laurel, it was nearly the halfway point between Baltimore and Wolf Trap.

He pulled in, parking in front of Will, to be sure his car was equally, if not better, hidden from passerby. He didn’t want to be interrupted in this.

Will’s car door had been left open, and the trail of foot prints in the snow were ill defined, already soft from the wind and the continued fall.

He tracked them for upwards of an hour, well aware that his coat was not thick enough for this kind of exposure, but spurred on by the thought that neither was Will’s, and if he didn’t find him, someone else might.

He didn’t know if the latter thought was born of his possessive feelings towards Will’s potential death, or if it was because of his instincts for self preservation. He didn’t allow himself the time for introspection. Nightfall had set in, and he couldn’t hear anything over the blanketing hush of snow falling. He concentrated, afraid that he would miss Will, expecting to find him curled in on himself and partially covered in snow.

 

The night and snow had covered the trail, and he had to slow down as his visibility lessened. But slowing didn’t help when he stepped off of solid ground and onto ice which, though frozen, was not yet thick enough to support his weight. He went down, and simultaneously a sharp pain shot up his leg, through his hip, and up his side.  

Fortunately the water was shallow, but the fall hurt and the cold didn’t help.

Still, he pressed on, more determined than ever to find Will. After all, who was to say that he hadn’t made the same mistake, somewhere a little deeper?

As the trail turned and he could see again, he realized he’d walked in a loop—he was back at their cars, and Will was waiting for him, leaning on his own vehicle.

Hannibal noticed that Will was wearing a much thicker coat than the one he’d brought into his office—probably left in his car after one crime scene or another.

He also noticed that he, himself, was shaking with the cold. He had forgotten to eat, of course, because he expected to be taken in by the FBI, and between the exposure and the fall, he felt weak now. Unacceptable.

His steps faltered.

 

“Hannibal!” Will strode toward him, the sheepish sort of distant look on his face turning into concern.

“What are you—you’re soaked! You shouldn’t be out here in that—I’m so sorry.” He pulled his coat off and draped it over the doctor’s shoulders.

Hannibal fought to choose the right words, over the shaking and the feeling that his intellect had frozen, along with the rest of him.

“Yes, well. I was… concerned.” Hannibal spoke over his clacking teeth. “You left so quickly and Jack called, and no one had heard from you—I thought I had done something wrong.”

“You—no, not at all. Oh Jesus. I uh. No, I got overwhelmed in my own head, I—look, let’s get you warm. I’ll call Jack in just a minute, um. Let’s get you home, I’ll get you some dinner or something. It’s the least I can do after dragging you out here. Are you okay to drive?”

He searched Will’s face, his eyes, looking for any sign that there was a lie there, that his secret was no longer safe, but he couldn’t find any.

“I should be, yes, thank you.” He had gained control of his teeth but his hands were still shaking.

 

Fortunately they were reasonably close to his house, and the roads were fairly clear. He was relieved that it seemed Will didn’t know after all—unless he suspected and wanted access to Hannibal’s house, in order to have proof before he took his concerns to Jack. But he also felt as though Will’s guilt over the state he was in would somewhat allay his suspicions. Because he had a hard time imagining the men he chased in their mundane lives, away from the killings. He understood their surroundings, the hard facts… but not the human side of the monsters that he chased.

And seeing Hannibal, who was usually put together, in this kind of state, could do nothing but hammer in the idea that he was human. He thought he might even play up the sickness a bit, for Will’s benefit.

When he climbed out of his car and unlocked the door, though, it seemed that might not be entirely necessary.

All he wanted was to collapse into a hot bath, or into his bed, and sleep for days.

Not that he would truly allow himself such dormancy.  Still, the thought was nice.

He sank into his arm chair and let his head fall into his hand, propped on the arm rest.

Will followed him in and closed the front door that he had left open—uncharacteristically negligent. He frowned.

 

“Hannibal? Are you—you’re still in your wet clothes. You should probably get changed? I’ll um.” He looked doubtfully over his shoulder at the kitchen.

“Tea, I think, would be lovely.” Hannibal interjected smoothly, afraid of imagining the results if he were to let Will loose in his kitchen without supervision. The mental image of brutishly deep scores in his extinct wood butcher’s block made him wince a bit.

“Sore? Do you… need help upstairs?” Will had obviously seen the expression, which was also uncharacteristic for him. He usually had better control of his face than that.

“No, I will manage. Tea is in the cupboard to the left there. I trust you can find the pot yourself.” He offered a small smile and stood out of his seat with a little grunt- undignified.

“Don’t forget to call Uncle Jack and let him know you are alright. And Alana is, I believe, at your house. You may consider contacting her as well.” He said, an attempt at covering up for all these little slips.

If he wasn’t careful, he could well let slip far worse. Though he trusted his control more than all of that. He just needed rest, and some food in him. That was all.

First, though, clean clothing. Dry, clean clothing.

 

He did make it upstairs, leaning heavily on the railing to aid him. This was miserable, he felt lethargic. All he wanted was for Will to leave so that he could care for himself without the self consciousness that came from being observed. As it was, he worked to keep his back straight and his posture good all the way into his bedroom, at which point he sat heavily on the bench at the foot of his bed.

He struggled with his socks, then his vest and tie and shirt, and finally stood to remove his pants.

He may not be feeling well, but he still had respect for his wardrobe, his environment—he bent to pick up his discarded clothing, and swooned as he lost balance and toppled onto his floor.

Will came, though whether it was because of the sound of him falling, or because his absence had been noted, he couldn’t tell. He’d seemed only to blink, but perhaps he’d slept. He seemed so far off from everything around him, and his head felt heavy and warm and he felt as though his heart was thumping in his ears.

“Will… I think I may have fallen a bit ill.” Even his voice was disjointed and distant.

Will laughed a little maniacally, the sound strained in the same way his smiles were, at times, when he felt they were expected of him.

“It’s alright. Let me just… let’s get you in bed and I can call a doctor for you.”

Will made to help him up, and Hannibal raised a hand.

“Let me. You dislike contact. I know, it’s fine.” Will jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned, and Hannibal frowned, his mind foggy but still able to tell that he’d offended his friend. He pushed himself up and gained his feet, but was unsteady. Will rushed in and under his arm, pressing himself against his side to hold him steady.

“I am sorry, Doctor Lecter. This is my fault.” He spoke quietly, somewhere between angry and guilty. His words were bitten off, carefully enunciated, and Hannibal was suddenly stricken with curiosity.

“Have you ever stuttered, Will? Or is your careful speaking the result of braces slurring your speech as a child?”

“It—I. Here, let’s just get you to bed, and--” Hannibal gripped Will’s shoulder, fingers digging into his upper arm until Will gasped, surprised, and Hannibal realized he was hurting him. He immediately loosened his grasp and allowed himself to be steered to bed.

“I’m sorry Will. I was just curious.”

“When I get stressed or angry, my jaw tightens and I start to slur my speech. So I speak more carefully at times like…” He trailed off, realizing the corner he’d spoken himself into. His jaw tightened visibly, and he shrugged.

“I’m sorry I angered you. That was not my intent. I meant only to make you as comfortable as I could with the situation.”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“Because my discomfort was what got us here. Sorry. I’ll get that tea, and then call a doctor for you. Just hang tight.”

With that he beat a hasty retreat, and Hannibal relaxed.

 

He must have dozed; when he woke, Will was semisprawled on the bench at the foot of the bed, his upper body stretched out over the empty space beside Hannibal’s feet, and the tea on his bedside table was cold.

He sniffed, registering the stretched feeling of his sinuses and his muted ability to smell, to the point where he could hardly tell what kind of tea it was until he’d lifted it nearly to his face.

Not that it would matter. His mouth was so dry and his throat so warm and sore, he’d have swallowed it down even if it appeared to have been made from oleander leaves.

Unsweetened earl grey was perhaps not best cold, but it wasn’t terrible.

His usual muscle control was also a bit rusty; he sat the cup down, but the resulting noise served to wake Will from his slumber. He sat up immediately, as though his dreams had been startling or upsetting.

“Apologies.” Hannibal spoke, but only a croak emerged. Will shook his head and stood, wordlessly taking the empty mug and heading into the bathroom with it.

When he returned it was full of water, ostensibly to drink, and probably from the tap, and his face was wet.

Hannibal, to be honest, was badly off enough that he could nearly have drank it even if he’d thought it had come from the toilet bowl. But, appearances mattered.

“Please, Will… would you… water from the refrigerator. The door dispenses it. Filtered.” He gestured in an expansive way, and ended up with his hand on his forehead. He frowned, surprised at how cold his palm felt.

“You’ve got a fever. Doctor Williams said he would be out first thing in the morning—with the snow falling the way it is, him driving so far is a bad idea. Unless you have a closer doctor that you’d prefer.” Will explained.

“Is that why you are still here?” Hannibal asked, his usual filters disabled, perhaps partially intentionally.  He did always most enjoy the moments where he unmasked himself, before the killing began. He wouldn’t kill Will, not now—it served no purpose, and besides, he lacked the energy. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t milk the sickness into giving him a chance to ride himself into a frenzy, mentally.

Will turned his head away, jaw locking, the way he did whenever Hannibal asked a question that he didn’t want to answer.

Hannibal took that for a yes, and found himself… disappointed. Not hurt, exactly, though he thought probably he should be. He sat back against his pillows and fell silent.

 

-*-

 

Will let the water fill the cup, well aware that it was taking far longer than he would like.

Hannibal’s mind was interesting, sure—he’d always thought it was so composed, and just full of books, a veritable library. He just wasn’t sure he liked seeing Hannibal this way. He thought it was odd Hannibal hadn’t tried to send him away yet, though he could feel it coming. Hannibal’s polish, his poise, had been sapped away by the cold he’d caught. His restraint, too, seemed to be lessened. And he felt like Hannibal probably hated the idea of anyone seeing him like that.

But Will felt almost… special, actually, for being the one who was seeing it. And he wasn’t sure if that was him talking, or any of the recent murderers he’d had in his head. He shrugged it off, focusing instead on his sick friend—the friend who was sick now because he’d been honestly worried about Will and his wellbeing.

Will nosed around in Hannibal’s cupboards, hoping, probably foolishly, that Hannibal would have an emergency can of chicken noodle soup or something.  No such luck. The man didn’t even have a microwave.

Well. Not that he thought Hannibal would appreciate him in his kitchen overmuch. He decided to just take the drink back upstairs, and ask the doctor about his appetite then.

Hannibal had kicked off his blankets by the time Will returned, his feet tangled in them. His eyes were open, as was his mouth, but he looked damp with sweat. Will thought immediately of nightmares, and then he remembered the fever. He put the water down and pressed his hand to Hannibal’s forehead.

 

It may have been cold from holding the chilled glass, but Hannibal’s head was burning up.

He ventured into Hannibal’s attached bathroom and dampened one of the black washcloths hanging on top of the carefully folded body towel.

He wrung it out and then filled it again with colder water, folding it over. He went back to Hannibal’s side and placed it on his forehead.

Hannibal let out a whimper and flinched violently away from the wetness, until Will spoke, keeping his voice as soft and soothing as he did to talk to one of his strays.

“Hey, Hey, it’s alright. You’re really warm, Hannibal. Let me help cool you off—we don’t want the heat to damage your brain, right?” It was a remembered threat from childhood, one of the ways his father had convinced him to succumb to medicine. He wondered if there was Benadryl in one cabinet or another, and he went back to the bathroom to look, with no luck.

Hannibal had begun tossing his head, somehow getting the washcloth to drape across his face. Will could hear him… sucking on it?

He immediately felt awful, and grabbed at another pillow, lifting Hannibal’s upper body up with a grunt, and rearranging so that, with a little work, he’d propped him into an almost-sitting position.

He put the washcloth back on his forehead, and put the water glass to his lips.

“Here we go, nice and slow, alright?” He tilted it up, not sure that Hannibal actually understood what was going on. Again, he flinched at the first contact, but then his eyes went wide, if still glassy and unfocused, and he grasped at the cup, clumsy hands holding it to his mouth as though he was afraid it would be taken from him.

“Woah, come on, slow down—we don’t need you throwing it back up in a minute.” He put a hand on the glass, and Hannibal growled at him. Not even words, his eyes focused on Will for a moment, and he growled.

Will pulled his hand, and the cup, back. Immediately, Hannibal looked chastened.

“Prašom...” he whispered, hand coming up to touch his lips.

 

Will didn’t know what that meant, but he assumed it was in Hannibal’s first language, whatever that was.

 

“Slowly.” He spoke carefully, enunciating, though he knew perfectly well that Hannibal understood English. He put the glass back to Hannibal’s lips, and Hannibal rested his hand on Will’s, his grip, again, surprisingly strong.

Hannibal just hummed and drank, then fell back against the pillows, his energy obviously sapped.

Will lifted the cloth to feel his forehead again; still warm, now clammy with the damp. He flipped it over so the cool side would be against his skin, and went to fetch another for around his neck, the way his dad used to place them on Will when he’d been younger and sick.

 

-*-

********  
  


_He was shaking. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, his skin, like it wanted to suck all the warmth out of his soul, but he was stronger than that. Had too much fire in him, his mother used to say._

_One of the men brought him water, teased him with a little before taking it away. He could feel his lips cracking, and if nothing else, he knew they had plenty of water. So much snow... the snow was what would likely kill them all, wasn’t that what they kept saying? But now it was what he needed. He was cold, but his mouth, his throat, it all felt too dry, too warm. He hoped he wasn’t getting sick. He knew what would happen if he did._

_“Please.” He wasn’t begging, wasn’t giving in, not really. He just knew what they wanted. Hoped that was all._

_The water returned, with instructions to drink slowly. He did, feeling more satisfied for it._

_He was almost thankful, almost, though he would never tell them as much. They might demand pleasantries, occasionally, but they never deserved any actual politeness._

_He lay back and let himself drift._

 

 

He had no idea how long it was before he woke again, but when he did he was in his own room. Will was in a chair near his bed, his chin on his chest, snoring lightly.

He blinked and reached a sluggish hand up to get the last of the water, then he stood, silent despite the pain that still was chasing through his side, and made his way to the bathroom, fever still clinging tenaciously to his skull and causing it to throb wickedly.

He emptied his bladder and washed his hands, then splashed water over his face, aware of the way he swayed on his feet when he wasn’t holding onto the counter for support.

He needed to get back to bed, before he fell to the floor again, but he also needed to eat. He could feel the hunger as a parallel twinge to the one that came when he moved the sore muscles in his side.

But even in his haze he knew he was in no condition to prepare anything. He could, however, blow his nose, wash his hands once more, and rub some menthol cream on his side in the hopes that it would help the pain there. He grimaced at the thought of the menthol rubbing off on his sheets, but decided there was nothing for it. He had started to shake harder, his body telling him that he was simultaneously freezing and burning, while his skin began to tingle. He crawled into bed, drawing his blankets up around him as though he were drowning and they would keep him afloat.

 

Will woke at the sound of the blankets moving, jerking alert but not moving away.

“You don’t have fever medication?” He asked, his voice thick with sleep, even though they both knew it to be an incomplete one.

“I do not medicate myself unless absolutely necessary.” The words themselves should have sounded distinguished, but the way his voice cracked around them made them more petulant than anything else.

Will looked like he wanted to laugh.

****

“There are three guest rooms, Will. You needn’t sleep in a chair.” He murmured it, though his eyes were heavy and refusing to stay open, so he couldn’t see Will’s body language, couldn’t gauge his response.

Will said something, but he was already nodding off, so he assumed it was some kind of acknowledgement or assent.

 

-*-

 

Hannibal looked so vulnerable—not normally a word he would attribute to the man. He looked somehow small, lost in the blankets and clutching them to him, without actually managing to be covered by them.

Will shifted them, trying to cover more of his skin. He couldn’t pull the blankets free, though, couldn’t pry them from Hannibal’s grip. He stood back and took in the scene, the way Hannibal looked unlike himself, undressed, shaking, blankets in a death grip, some sort of ointment spread on his torso, a look of discomfort etched onto his face. And for probably the first time, he wondered what it was that went on behind Hannibal’s eyes.

He sat back in the chair, eyes furrowed, and looked at the man, looked around the room, looked for the sorts of clues that would let him build the design. Just an exercise, he told himself, something to remind him that he could use empathy to get to know people who weren’t killers…

But there was nothing. It was odd, really, thinking about it now, how sparse and utilitarian the entire house was. Tasteful, to be sure, classy and elegant the way one would expect from how the man carried himself. But there was an absence, too, a lack of things that made it a home. It looked like a model house in a housing community.

He looked again at Hannibal, at the eyes squeezed tightly shut, at knuckles that had paled from their grip, at the shakes he could see clearly in the shoulder that wasn’t covered by the blankets. And he wondered what sorts of things a man like this had to trouble him. Was it Tobias Budge? Helping Abigail hide the body of Nicholas Boyle? He seemed to take all of the violence around him in stride, unflappable.

Will couldn’t imagine being the receptacle of so many peoples’ fears, their sorrows. But Hannibal was. He took it, neutralized them. What was it that he carried of his own? No man was without scars. No matter how sane.

Will was uncomfortable, and he got up and went to find one of the other bedrooms that Hannibal had mentioned. Equally empty, furnished, clean, well kept, but nothing to say that anyone had ever used them.

What did he use them for? Will couldn’t help wondering if Hannibal put up friends, family, lovers… He shook his head. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he could only get in the heads of monsters. And he refused to think of what that said about him.

He stripped the comforter off the bed and carried it back into Hannibal’s room. With a flourish, he draped it over the bed, covering all of the exposed, shivering skin.

He picked up the cloth from Hannibal’s head, and winced at how warm it was against his palm.

 

“Draudimas…” Hannibal murmured, voice soft. “Prašom nepykti…” He sounded so upset, so sad, that Will’s heart broke for him a little.

He brushed his hand across his forehead, pushed his hair up and back.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” He didn’t know what Hannibal was saying to really comfort him, but he knew a nightmare when he saw it.

Hannibal frowned, and Will went back to the bathroom to re-wet the cloth. He didn’t wring it out this time, hoping it would stay cooler for longer this way. He brought it back and patted at Hannibal’s forehead with it, in the hopes that this contact would keep him from wincing when he laid it out across his brow.  Drips trailed down his face, and he moved to wipe them off before they ran into his eyes.

Instead, Hannibal’s hand shot up, faster than he would have thought possible for someone as sick as Hannibal seemed. He grabbed on to Will’s wrist and squeezed it a little, not enough to hurt but enough that Will was afraid to move.

Hannibal’s eyes opened, just to tiny slits, and Will was a little amazed to find that his eyes were so dark—maybe it was the lighting, or maybe it was just the fact that his pupils were blown huge, but his eyes almost seemed red, right now.

The surprise rendered him silent and unable to look away.

“Mischa?” Hannibal asked, the tone making it clearly a question, even though Will could tell he wasn’t actually seeing him. He wasn’t sure if Mischa was a person, or a word—water? Food?

“Mischa, pasiklydau.” Hannibal was plaintive now.

Carefully, slowly, Will lifted his hand to close over Hannibal’s on his wrist.

“It’s okay. I’m here…” He didn’t know how much comfort that would give. He wouldn’t be comforted. He searched for something, anything, that he could say to make it better.

But Hannibal was already relaxing. He released Will’s wrist and patted his hand absently, the way Will’s father had on his death bed. Will pushed that thought firmly away.

 

“Aš ne tegul jums pakenkti.” Hannibal told him, more gibberish but seemingly something that was a comforting thought—

 

“Ahhsh neh tehguhl yums pahkya-unkty?” He repeated it slowly, already sure he’d butchered the pronunciation, but hoping he could remember it to ask Hannibal about later.

Hannibal smiled at that, and seemed to relax further, his eyes sliding back closed.

Will waited for a moment, then moved to take his hand away, but Hannibal’s grip tightened on it, refusing to let him go, and frown lines appeared around his eyes.

Will chuckled a little, looked around, stretched out his leg, and hooked his foot around the leg of the chair. He held his breath while he pulled it closer, praying it didn’t screech across the floor or scratch it or something.

It didn’t. He sat down in it, his knees bumping the bed, and held Hannibal’s hand in his.

The last time Will had stuck around to help a sick friend, it had been shortly after he picked up Harvey, wandering alone near some railroad tracks. He’d been able to see every rib, and Harvey had eaten his kibble too quickly.

It was… different, being here for a human.

He’d spent the night curled around the dog, sharing body heat and making him feel safe by holding him. He looked down at their hands, tangled together, and he couldn’t help but imagine holding Hannibal the same way. He chuckled again, laughing at himself bitterly.  As if he weren’t enough of a social nutcase already, he was trying to think of his psychologist as a dog.  He sighed and folded his free arm on the bed, pillowing his head there.

 

-*-

Morning came, and brought with it clarity. He didn’t open his eyes right away, instead coming awake because he’d inhaled and smelled… what? Will, obviously—the hot, sweet smell of his mind turning against his body, mixed with salty fear sweat and dogs. Mint, too—fainter, but there… not on the side near Will, though. On him. On his side.

He tensed, and the changing of how his muscles lay brought to his attention the hold he had on Will’s hand. He opened his eyes, and Will was watching him, head pillowed on his arm and eyes red, like he’d only slept a very little, if at all.

Hannibal wondered how long he’d been watching him, and what he’d seen while he did.

For the first time, of the rare moments when their eyes actually made contact, Hannibal looked away, dropping Will’s hand in the process.

Will stretched, scooting his chair backwards before standing. Hannibal sat up, suddenly aware of the extra comforter on his bed, and the fact that under the blankets, he wore nothing but his briefs.

He remembered stripping off his wet clothes, remembered how they had gotten that way. Remembered that Will had all but said he’d stuck around only because of the weather—but that hardly explained sleeping by his bedside, holding his hand. He looked down at his hand, then up at Will, as though asking for an explanation.

He wasn’t, though. He understood. He had spent the last few months building up this kind of feeling inside of Will. He’d thought he was less successful than this though. It made him smile, finding that wasn’t the truth.

“How’re you feeling?” Will asked, his voice a rough croak after disuse and less than ideal sleeping conditions.

“Better.” He replied, taking mental stock of himself. “I think I will be bruised from the fall, but for the most part, I feel better. Are you hungry?” By and large, that was his most immediate need. If Will was still talking to him, still calm around him, it seemed his secret was safe yet.

“I could eat, yeah.” Will said, shrugging one shoulder casually. Hannibal felt a corner of his mouth sliding up at that.

“If you wouldn’t mind, then, I will get dressed, and come down to make breakfast shortly.” A dismissal, polite as possible, but just the same. Fortunately, Will seemed not to take offense. He blushed, ducked his head, and went for the door.

Bemused, Hannibal stood, a little unsteady on his feet, and aching as expected, but otherwise fine. He wrinkled his nose at the sloppy remains of the topical cream, sighed at the thought of needing to wash his sheets after laying on them with it on, and he beelined for the shower.

He made it a quick one, tempted to stroke himself just for the perverse pleasure of knowing that Will was nearby, waiting for him, but he refrained. He preferred to take his time with such things.

He dressed himself in his usual clothing for casual wear, and went downstairs, tugging his sleeves into place under his sweater as he went.

Will was standing at his counter, looking a bit like a lost dog.

“German pancakes, I think… sausage or bacon?” He asked, to announce his presence. Will turned to face him.

“Hannibal… what is ‘Ahhsh neh tehguhl yums pahkya-unkty’?”

Hannibal blinked, frozen, and thought quickly. The words were butchered, the accent terrible, but it was recognizable just the same.

“Words to a lullaby I have not heard since I was a child.” He responded lightly. “Where did you hear them?” His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he remembered his dreams from the night before. Cloaked as they were in another tongue, the thought of sharing them with Will still gave him pause.

“You were talking during your fever. It seemed important to you to say it to me, but I guess that makes sense. Where are you from? I don’t think I’ve ever asked before.”

 

“Lithuania. But Will, you did not answer my question. Sausage or Bacon?”

-*-

 

He left to return home, glad that Alana had fed his dogs for him, and gladder still that this had happened, despite everything. It was uncomfortable, acknowledging his fledgling feelings of attraction towards Doctor Lecter. Confusing, a little.

But then, he thought, as the translator app on his phone pulled up the English version of the phrase- I will not let them hurt you- it seemed he might not be alone in those feelings. The enormity of the emotion struck him, and he felt full of... for once, something other than dread.

He turned on the music and drove home with a smile.  

 

-*-

It was fitting, he thought, that Will be the recipient of those words, however unintended they may have been at the time.

It was true. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to hurt Will.

That was _his_ design.

 

 

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I had a revelation while writing this... about Hannibal's underwear. 
> 
> Because boxers would totally ruin the lines of some of his pants.
> 
> For more revelations as they come, updates on future stories, and lots of pretty pictures, feel free to join me at MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


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